“What a fascinating contradiction,” Azazael mused, her eyes gleaming from behind her goggles. She brought up the jar of liquified red bile. Pirim broke out in a sweat as the liquid inside the jar began to slam itself against the glass, reaching towards her as if it were alive. Azazael lifted the jar closer and closer, and the violent convulsions that racked the mysterious material increased in intensity.

“It’s reacting, which it only does when it senses people who are infected by the Influence. However, your blood itself has not even a single trace of the Influence inside it. Either you are ailed by some otherworldly force that does not operate on the Influence, or what I thought I knew about red bile was wrong.” As Azazael said this, she shuffled through messy notes scrawled in ink. She pondered them for a second before coming to a conclusion. “No, there is too much evidence. It must be that whatever ails you comes from the same world that the Influence does, but is different in nature. How odd… do you have anything to say on the matter?”

“No, I think you’re right,” Pirim said. She silently urged Phylaris not to make any stupid decisions. She could hear Phylaris vibrating in laughter under her robe at her discomfort.

“Of course,” Azazael nodded. “Of course I am. I am very glad indeed that the coin landed heads up.”

“The what?”

“Oh, nevermind,” Azazael said. She waved dismissively and returned to her notes. She mumbled under her breath, “though that does mean I’ll have to look extra hard for more supplies…”

“What now?” Pirim asked. Half of her wanted to leave this creepy abandoned shack, but the other half of her wanted to stay with Azazael and make the shack her new home. After all, she was still in hiding, and it wasn’t like she would find someone else to provide for her.

“Well, Ms. Patricia,” said Azazael – that was right, Pirim had given her a false alias – “The best thing to do after having a bloodletting is a nice meal. This is because food and drink are essential for the body to replenish its blood supply. As for myself, lecturing and hard work always deepen my appetite. So, I say we eat. I am no professional chef, of course, but I can get by. In fact, there are specific dishes only I have the knowledge to make.”

Pirim raised her eyebrows. She had experienced hospitality in the city of Walden, but had low expectations when it came to Loxburg. It was a welcome gesture. Perhaps Azazael was not as self-absorbed as she thought. She nodded in gratitude. Though she did not truly trust the peculiar little doctor, she could at least feel some semblance of companionship through supping together, a sense that she had begun to miss so very dearly.

“Now, let me just cover this specimen so that nothing airborne gets in our food,” Azazael said before draping a cloth that seemed almost as dirty as the corpse itself over it. Then, she turned towards the kitchen. The kitchen was smoky gray in color, with dark bituminous stones lining the floor and an open fireplace at the far wall. Soot thoroughly covered every crevasse, which made the area so dark that Pirim had not even noticed its existence until Azazael lit it up with the lantern. As she milled about, Pirim could see the hanging, drying chunks of foreign meat above the fireplace. The coloration was not red nor pink, but instead, an odd orange with hints of blue and green. She edged closer. The wafting smell that she had first thought came from the corpses and the jars of humours was actually coming from this strange meat. It was repulsive and disgusting by all logical means, but subconsciously, it was tantalizing. Her mouth began to water.

“Oh, you’re intrigued, I see,” Azazael said. “I have also developed something that will revolutionize culinary practices here. Food supplies have been dwindling for a while, since the nearby land has been rendered infertile and inhospitable to crops. However… this meat here is from the Flesh Fields.”

Images of the abhorrent plain of offal and entrails inundated Pirim’s mind and senses. She almost vomited on the spot.

“No way I’m eating that!” was her first reaction. Azazael did nothing but laugh.

“Do not worry. It is completely sanitary and safe. I offered to showcase this method to the tavernkeeper at the Fleeting Owl, but he thought I was mad. But if I was mad, then I would not be alive after eating it, would I?” Azazael set a large cast iron pot above the pile of firewood and lit the fire with a fire-steel and flint. Then, she brought out a cutting board and knife, took one of the hanging strips of meat, and began to slice it. Pirim could not watch; the oxymoronic disgust and hunger she felt conflicted her too much, especially when the meat began to wiggle and squirm by itself as if it were alive.

“Are you sure that thing is dead?”

“Absolutely sure. The growths in the Flesh Fields are due to mutations in the flesh of cattle. The reason animals and humans stop growing at adulthood is because large amounts of flesh require more energy to sustain. However, demonic influence has caused the cattle in that region to grow past their natural limitations. They eventually die because they cannot sustain themselves, but in the end, it is simply mutated animal meat grown to large proportions and infused with the Influence. Using my extraction methods, I can draw out the Influence, leaving the meat safe to eat.”

Pirim could not bear to watch any longer. Instead, she fumbled around in her pockets and her satchel, mentally making a list of materials for her new wand. Since her wand had been broken, she had been on the lookout for appropriate sticks and branches to turn into wand. However, the trees in this place were a far cry from the lush summer vegetation she had once known. While she would have preferred a finely-cut and carved stick, she had to make do with what was around her.

“I’m going to go outside for a bit to get some fresh air,” Pirim called towards Azazael, who nodded.

“I understand. The smell can be a bit much for someone unused to it.”

Pirim opened the rickety door and stepped outside. The surrounding street provided even less of a semblance of safety than the abandoned building she resided in. Thankfully, there was nobody prowling around these weathered cobblestone roads, at least, nobody that she could see. She looked upwards at the sky. It was supposed to be midday, but instead of a bright noon sun, there was a pale purple glow smothered behind dark gray skies. It was barely recognizable as daytime, and any foreigner would have easily mistaken it for night. She shook her head. Even the skies were infected with strange phenomena. She pulled the hem of her hood deeper over her head and let her long locks of hair fall in front of her face, obscuring her eyes. She snuck around the corner of the building, ducking into an alleyway. It was there she procured a miserable-looking stick that she had stolen from a dying tree near the chapel.

Nature had obviously forsaken this place, and thus there was hardly any connection to it within that dismal stick. Unlike the sumptuous sheen of her carved mahogany wand, it possessed no aura of power. Pirim laid it down in the soaked, muddy dirt between the stones. With her chalk, she drew a scraggly red circle. The wetness of the road meant that the lines were murky and thus less powerful. It would have to do, however. She outlined several smaller circles alongside the outer ring, in which she drew several materials to be infused into the wand. Clumps of raw precious stones, dried herbs, etcetera. They were common herbs lacking the vitality of natural magic. Still, Pirim outlined the spell’s name underneath the makeshift wand, and cast it. The stick glowed with a dull light before the materials merged with it. She picked up her latest creation, feeling the grip. No doubt it would give her splinters. She bristled with annoyance. Her weakened state would be a constant reminder of what Sim and Victoria had done to her. As it stood now, she was far too weak to take her revenge.

An odd smell wafted through the shutters of her new home. She shoved the wand back inside her pockets and made her way back inside. As she did, she discreetly cast enough warding spell over the doorway, just in case.

Azazael was standing around the dining table, which was in even worse condition that the table she used for her experiments. She had set two pewter bowls out on the cloth and was pouring the peculiar soup into them with a ladle. The steaming pot had been taken out of the fireplace and set on top of the table. The scent made Pirim salivate and gag at the same time. As she approached the table, it seemed that the meat had stopped moving, at least. She leered at Azazael as she took a seat across from her. She bit her lip.

“Thank you for the meal,” she acquiesced. “And for providing me with a home to stay. I can’t express my gratitude enough.”

“Oh, do not worry,” Azazael said as she waved her hand. “I came here to help the village, after all. That includes you.”

Pirim could sense no malice behind Azazael’s words. It would be foolish to let her guard down after what Sim and Victoria, but there was a comfort in supping with a companion. It was fulfilling to watch the steam rise from the pot and fill her belly with warm, hearty soup. The nature of Azazael and her strange meat tainted the moment with an alien flavor, but it still was, in essence, a human experience.

Pirim eyed Azazael closely. She had still not taken off her mask. How was she to eat? She watched in amazement as the plague doctor fiddled with the goggles that filled the eye slits of the mask and removed them. Azazael was acutely aware of Pirim’s prying eyes, but to Pirim’s surprise, there were no visible eyes behind the goggles – instead, there was a sea of black. Azazael lifted her spoon to the empty hole and poured the soup inside.

Pirim immediately got up, one hand on her wand. Azazael leaned back in her chair and audibly swallowed.

“It’s a bit of an exotic flavor, but you get used to it,” she said in a nonchalant tone.

“Never mind that. What are you?”

“A doctor?” Azazael replied innocently.

“No, no. There was nothing behind your goggles. Besides, what human eats like that? Show me what’s behind your mask.”

Azazael sighed, muttering, “what a bother,” under her breath. “Listen,” she said. “You wouldn’t like what you would see. I’m a bit famous, you see. A celebrity with an instantly recognizable visage. Thankfully, nobody here in this town recognizes me; they’ve only seen pictures of my face, but never my voice. If you knew who I was, your opinion of me would change, and I can’t have any sentimentality affecting my work.”

“Now I trust you even less,” Pirim spat. “How do I know you don’t have any ulterior motive?”

“My, and I thought we could have a pleasant chat over supper,” Azazael said with a wistful tone. “What a shame. However, if you think I’m some sort of demon, there is more than enough evidence to prove that I am not. For example, why would I develop a cure for the Influence? And why would I tell you?”

Pirim said nothing. Admitting that Azazael had a solid point was akin to falling for her schemes. As she opened her mouth to formulate a retort, a loud crash disrupted her thoughts. She whirled towards the source of the noise – the door. Her warding spell had activated, dispelling strong-smelling smoke all over the immediate area. A silhouette stumbled in the doorway, grasping his face. The smoke cleared, and a man that Pirim had never seen before stood before her.

His face was grizzled, a coarse stubble coating his chin. He had wild hair tinged with gray, short and bushy. Though his hair was graying, he had a youthful, powerful appearance. The outline of his skull was prominent – a flat, hard forehead, a wide chin, high cheekbones, sunken, dark eyes, and protruding nose. He did not need to stand at full height to be intimidating. He slouched, but the tension in his body showed, like a beast ready to pounce. His clothing was simple, a leather tunic with several straps to hold sacks and satchels. When he saw Pirim, he bared his teeth in a hungry smile. But he was not focused on her. Instead, his ravenous gaze was transfixed on the bowl she had in his hands.

“Well, hello there! I certainly haven’t seen you around the village! What might be your name?” Azazael said, rising and spreading her hands in a welcoming gesture.

“Ferredick,” said the man. He barely paid Azazael any mind. “Look. I didn’t expect you to actually be alive, but I guess my job is done now. They said your name is Pirim. Come with me. Victoria and Sim are waiting.”

“What do they want with me?” Pirim retorted. She drew her wand and pointed it straight at Ferredick’s forehead. Seeing the wand, he raised an eyebrow, put his hands up, and took a step back. Then, Pirim added, “And my name is Patricia.”

“Dunno. Well, actually, Victoria said that she couldn’t let the guild figure out that she left you in the Catacombs. So she wants you back to-”

“Murder me personally?” Pirim hissed. “Like hell I’m letting that happen.”

“She said she would never kill another human being, but she does want to control what you say about her. Personally, I understand not wanting to come. But if you don’t want to get infected, it’s the only option you have.”

Ferredick shrugged. While Pirim was still standing, wand out, he casually walked down the room and sat himself at the table. Then, he took the ladle that was still in the pot and brought the soup to his mouth.

“Aaaah…” he sighed with a guttural edge to his voice.

He continued to eat. Pirim and Azazael said nothing, and their silence was broken by the obnoxious sound of his chewing. Suddenly it seemed as if he was here not to capture Pirim but instead help himself to their food. Before any of them could even formulate a thought, he had finished the entire pot of soup, demonic meat and all. He rose again, wiping spittle and broth from his chin.

Pirim looked at Azazael. She knew Victoria was capable of terrible things, but she was still unsure about Azazael’s true nature, which at least made her better than Victoria.

“Hold on,” Azazael said. She put a finger up to silence them both. They both stood, dumbfounded, as Azazael drew a coin from her robes and flipped it. She peered at it, and declared the results with a hint of disappointment. “It’s heads. Alright, I hope you know, Ferredick, that it is rather uncouth of you to storm in here uninvited, eat our food, and whisk away my assistant. Did you know that the food you just ate is from the Flesh Fields?”

“Course. I smelled it all the way here,” Ferredick replied gruffly.

“How interesting. I am running low on my humour supply, but the fact that you did not hesitate to eat that meat makes me so devilishly curious. Take me with you.”

“You’re not siding with him!” Pirim cried indignantly. Despair wormed its way into her stomach, replacing the fulfilling meal from earlier. “You do not want to be around someone like Victoria.”

“That only makes me even more curious,” said Azazael, and Pirim grit her teeth.

“I’m not walking into a death trap again,” Pirim said. She readied her wand. Ferredick’s heart didn’t quite seem into it, but she couldn’t get a good read of his character. She decided on a memory spell to make him forget his obligations. With one hand holding Phylaris, and the other holding her wand, she drew a magical circle. Her circle came out dotted as if drawn with a pen running out of ink. She cursed her wand.

Ferredick’s eyebrow raised as he realized what Pirim was trying to do. She hurried. She completed the circle and the spell’s name. Now where was that blasted mushroom?

Ferredick pounced. The tackle sent her flying as steel-strong hands wrapped around her abdomen. She crumpled. The circle dissipated. She hit the floorboards as the unevenness of the wood dug into her back. She opened her eyes to see Ferredick looking down at her with a pitiful, almost bored expression.

She struggled. She fought at his forearms with frenzied jabs, but it was like a woodpecker against a tree. They held firm. When that didn’t work, she switched to clawing, but her energy was already dwindling, and her scratches became measly scrapes. Ferredick clasped his hands at her throat. The air seemed to pop and fizzle. She gasped for breath, tried to scream, but her voice never made it past her chest.

Azazael appeared behind the shadowy mass of Ferredick. She peered down at Pirim and stroked her mask in thought. She squatted down and observed Pirim as her conscious began to fade. She reached out with feeble fingers towards the plague doctor, but there was no empathy in that pitch black void behind her eyes.

“You have good technique,” she said to Ferredick. “Who taught you how to… properly…”

And then, darkness.